Embracing Chaos
by Bedelia
Summary: The gifts start arriving on Christmas Day. All of them are empty. One-shot.


**Embracing Chaos**

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><p><em><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>__ I own nothing related to Harry Potter. This is an amateur, non-profit work.  
><em>_**A/N:**__ This was written for the Twin Exchange's Open Christmas Festival and as a gift for the lovely Callinectes. Thanks for reading! :)_

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><p>The first box arrived on Christmas Day.<p>

George would have stepped on it, had the ribbon tied around the red and green parcel not caught his attention by twinkling with fairy lights. It sat on the pavement just outside his front door, blanketed with frost. Picking it up, he frowned. Just to be sure his initial suspicion was correct, he gave it a few violent shakes.

It was empty.

He tore the wrapping paper away, letting the glowing ribbon flutter to the floor. Inside, he found a plain white cardboard box, with no indication of who had sent it. Shrugging his shoulders, he set it on a side table and rushed out of the house. He told himself that he would tidy it up later.

The rest of the family was already at the Burrow, waiting for him to arrive.

"_There_ you are," Percy said, holding out a plate that overflowed with mince pies slathered in brandy butter. He was already wearing his new Christmas jumper; the silver 'P' was dusted with icing sugar.

"Thanks, Perce," George said around a mouthful of pie. "Here—" he held open the green velvet sack that contained the gifts he'd purchased for the family, "—there should be one with your name on it near the top."

As he munched on pie after pie, George went around the Burrow, doling out gifts to siblings, in-laws, and nieces and nephews. When there was only one present remaining in his bag, he flopped down on a faded old sofa that sat by itself in a corner next to the fireplace.

Hermione sat there, as she always eventually did during these gatherings. Because it was Christmas, a mountain of brand new books sat at her feet. Everyone gave her books, without fail.

"You ready for the Boxing Day sale tomorrow?" he asked.

She shot him a wry grin. "Of course. I'll be toiling away in the back room, safe from the madness. I'm quite looking forward to seeing you try to manage the chaos."

"Pft. No sense trying to manage chaos. You have to _embrace_ it."

"Hmm." Chuckling, she rested a warm palm on his shoulder. "You embrace enough chaos for both of us. I'll stick to order and reason, thank you."

"Tsk. See, this is why you and I would never work as a couple."

"Oh, is now? Last week it was because you're allergic to Crookshanks's fur."

"Well, yeah, that too. Not to mention you are annoyingly impervious to my charms. Speaking of which, that reminds me."

Waggling his eyebrows, he donned his special mistletoe hat and manoeuvred himself so the evergreen leaves and white berries dangled over Hermione's head.

She laughed. Over the past couple of years, this had become as much a tradition as the bad jokes found in Christmas crackers. George waited for the customary, fleeting kiss she pressed to his cheek. He was so startled when the corner of her lips brushed against his that he almost dropped his hat.

"Happy Christmas," she said, handing him a neatly wrapped present.

He knew without looking what it would be. Just as everyone always gave Hermione books, she always knitted a scarf for George to match the jumper he received from his mother. He couldn't very well call her predictable - not for this reason, at least. His gift for her was the same thing he'd bought her every year since she told him she wanted to write a decent series of Muggle Studies textbooks: a ream of fresh parchment and a pretty Muggle fountain pen.

"Happy Christmas," he replied.

-oOo-

The other gifts showed up exactly as the first one had: on his doorstep early in the morning. Every last one contained nothing but air. George left them all stacked on the table, the wrapping paper and bows crumpled on the floor.

He told himself he'd tidy them up before the next time his mum came to visit.

On the third day, he woke up before dawn in an attempt to catch the culprit. All he got for his efforts was a set of bags under his eyes from lack of sleep; the gift was already there when he woke.

He set traps. He tried a Muggle surveillance camera, even though he knew living in Diagon Alley meant anything electronic would be scrambled. Nothing worked. The empty boxes were always there, waiting for him, taunting him.

On the tenth day, he stomped into the back room at the shop, hurling his sparkly coat at the coat rack. That morning's box had been wrapped in a glittery ribbon. Nothing George knew of could remove glitter — not even magic.

"Something wrong?" Hermione asked in a mild voice, dropping a little purple tablet into a beaker full of orange liquid.

"No, no, it's nothing," he said.

He wasn't willing to admit defeat just yet. He wanted to work out the mystery of the gifts on his own, without Hermione's assistance.

"How are the Paramour Violets coming along?" he asked.

"Good, so far." She nodded at the gently bubbling liquid in the beaker, seeming satisfied.

It had been Hermione's idea for her to test the safety of his products before they were offered to human volunteers. She only came in for a few hours every morning; the rest of her time was devoted to writing textbooks and, George assumed, teaching her cat how to be increasingly evil and malicious.

After jotting down a few notes, Hermione sprinkled white powder over another purple tablet. With a sizzle and an overwhelming burst of a burnt, flowery scent, the room filled with pale purple smoke.

"Err," George said with a sputtering, dry cough. "Might need some tweaking."

-oOo-

The last box arrived on Twelfth Night.

It was the biggest yet, almost as wide as Lockhart's ego and coming up to George's shoulders. Muttering to himself, he tore away the shimmering gold paper and heaps of curly silver ribbon.

The instant he set the box with the others, it set off an orange spark. One by one, the boxes burst into bright, multicoloured flames. Fireworks spewed from their charred lids, slowly forming shapes.

A partridge in a pear tree. Two turtledoves. Three French hens.

George laughed.

Just as the final box transformed into twelve lords a-leaping, the whole noisy, blinding production exploded. Confetti laced with glitter burst from every box, blanketing George in red and green. The remnants of the cardboard evaporated. All that remained on George's table was a little wind-up figurine that looked like Umbridge in a Santa suit. It whirred and buzzed around the tabletop, chanting, "Ho ho ho!" in a squeaky voice.

A familiar laugh rang out, low and soft. Somehow, when George was preoccupied with the show, Hermione had sneaked in. She stood in his entryway, leaning against the door frame.

"How's _that_ for embracing chaos?" she asked.

George grinned. "Y'know," he said, leaning over her and shaking some of the confetti out of his hair, "I think I was wrong. You and I might just be brilliant together."

_The End_


End file.
